


Under Control

by dreamersoftenlie1



Category: dreamnotfound - Fandom
Genre: George POV, M/M, still don't know how to work tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-22 03:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamersoftenlie1/pseuds/dreamersoftenlie1
Summary: George has finally made it to Florida, and the spark between him and Dream (Clay) is about to consume them both.Same storyline, two perspectives:Chapter 1: Third-person George POVChapter 2: First-person Dream POV
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dreamnotfound - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 161





	1. George POV (3rd Person)

**Author's Note:**

> Ignoring my other DNF three-part series because I'm so inundated with projects right now but I just needed to release some creativity. 
> 
> I didn't proofread this so if anyone spots some edits, please let me know in the comments! 
> 
> Song credit to Cinzia & The Eclipse.

_You bite your lip just a little bit harder  
And you breathe just a little bit stronger  
But yeah, you got it all under control_

* * *

There’s always been something there.

From the moment he steps out of Sapnap’s car — no, _Nick’s_ car — coming face-to-face with the man he’s spent so many hours of his life online with these past few years…

He can feel that _something_ reaching a boiling point.

The entire ride from the airport to the house, George listened to Nick prattling on about how excited he was to see him, how the Dream Team would be fully and finally realized. He laughed and played along, pushing down the nauseating sensation in the pit of his stomach. And it wasn’t from the flight.

He would be lying if he didn’t say he'd felt just a little disappointed when Dream told him he wouldn’t be coming with Nick to pick him up from the airport, the risk of an accidental face reveal in public too high. To his credit, Nick did his best to make their little airport greeting as exciting as possible, even managing a half-assed cardboard sign that rather illegibly spelled out _’Welcome home Gogy!’_ in thick black ink. Nobody, of course, took notice of them or their hugs, not even their high-pitched laughter, so Dream’s precaution was all for naught.

Then again…

Now that he’s here, now that Dream is ten steps away, standing in the doorway between the humid garage and the air conditioned house just beyond, now that he’s _looking_ at him, _smiling_ in a way that feels friendly and yet somehow personal as if this is a smile reserved for him and him alone, George isn’t sure what sort of disaster would’ve unfolded at the airport had he experienced the waves of disorientation now washing over him relentlessly.

This is Dream, _Clay_ , his best friend… and George doesn’t know what to do.

There’s a hesitation, but it’s not awkward. It’s as if they’re both trying to figure out what to do. Nick is looking between the two of them, waiting.

And then George takes two steps forward, and Clay meets him in the middle.

The hug is warm, and George is hyper-aware of every place Clay is touching him. Aware of the way Clay’s arms can wrap fully around him, aware of just how tall he is, how George’s chin has to tilt just to reach above his shoulder.

Then they’ve pulled away and Clay is laughing so George laughs.

“I can’t believe you finally made it!” Clay is ushering him inside, gaze never drifting away from his.

“What? Did you think I was just memeing you this entire time?”

“I don’t know, you coulda been.”

“Wow,” George drawls sarcastically, setting his bags down on the floor in the living room, barely even giving his surroundings a look as he keeps his attention on Clay. “You must think so little of me.”

“No, of course not,” Clay is quick to contradict, a hint of a chuckle leaving his lips. “Just didn’t want my heart to be broken.”

George could answer with any number of his trademark sassy responses, but just then it feels wrong, because he knows exactly what Clay means. “I’d never break your heart.” His voice is light-hearted, half-joking and yet half-serious — because he means it, but that might be crossing a line.

Clay notices, though. George can tell by the way he’s tilted his head just slightly. This is the first time he’s seeing him in person, not across a pixelated computer or phone screen during private calls, not in secret photos on Snapchat, and yet he feels like he’s always known Clay this way. Up close and personal. George has just had his hands tied behind his back up until now. But now that he’s free, now that he can study him in a way he’s never been able to before, there’s a hunger growing inside of him.

Nick coughs, as if he’s trying to remind the two of them that he’s still here. “Want to meet Patches, Gogy?”

* * *

They’ve flirted before.

They’ve always flirted. DNF was always at the core of every joke they’ve cracked.

But there was a shift during the months leading up to George’s arrival in Florida. Even before he’d begun the booking process, before he’d told either Clay or Nick that he was looking into his visa situation, there’d been a noticeable change in the way Clay responded to George’s subtle advances, the way George felt bolder with his jokes.

George became aware of the way he didn’t just need but _craved_ Clay’s attention more than ever before and how that somehow paralleled Clay’s own desire for George’s presence simply as a comfort. The days their schedules fell out of pattern with one another were difficult, a series of texts with hours between responses, each sending cryptically riskier messages or memes while they waited for the other to wake up as if they were both just trying to see how far the other would take things.

But they’d never addressed it. They’d never bothered sitting down to talk things through because it just seemed normal. Or, perhaps, they’d just wanted it to seem normal.

So… maybe George was aware of the shift, was aware of the way he felt something for Clay that couldn’t be labeled as friendly. But was Clay aware of it? Was Clay just playing around or did he feel it too?

That was the _something_ that had felt so ambiguous for too many months now and all of a sudden was beginning to feel palpable. Too powerful. Like complete desperation, as if George would suffocate if he couldn’t have it.

But there was one problem: friends.

Friends didn’t go there, friends don’t cross that line.

* * *

It only takes them twenty-six hours. 

George manages to restrain himself for twenty-six hours.

He’s sleep-deprived, the flight and unfamiliar surroundings taking their toll. Four hours of sleep between fits of excitement and uncertainty, and Clay has been walking around the house looking like as much of a zombie as him all day.

Still, it’s not enough to subdue the adrenaline from just being here, _finally_.

And at least Nick seems to be alert, holding up most of the conversation while he lounges on an armchair across from where Clay and George have comfortably situated themselves on opposite ends.

George is realizing how difficult it is to focus on anything other than Clay when he’s right there next to him, how agonizing it is to not drink him in as if he’s going to simply vanish tomorrow.

“What do you think, George?”

At the mention of his name, he snaps his attention back to Nick, gaze having wandered towards Clay without even realizing it.

“Uh,” he realizes he doesn’t know what he’s being asked but doesn’t want to come off rude. “Sure.”

Nick lets out a hearty laugh, shaking his head in defeat, “You don’t even know what I was asking you about, do you?”

George rolls his eyes, trying to play it off as nothing, “Clearly it wasn’t important or exciting enough for me to be paying attention to.”

“Ouch,” Clay sounds from his right, lifting an eyebrow.

“Whatever. I’m just glad George is as annoying offline as he is online.” Nick says, tapping his phone on and standing up. “Anyway, I have plans. You two just…” He glances at them both then shakes his head, “Behave while I’m gone.”

Clay huffs, “Ok, father,” triggering a low giggle from George.

They both watch in amusement as Nick mutters on about how _nobody respects me here_ and _I don’t need to take this_ , only turning back to give them a dramatic wave as he heads out to his car.

“And here I thought he’d never leave.” The sarcasm is heavy in George’s voice, as he rises to his feet and stretches his arms to the ceiling, willing some energy to suddenly materialize and revive him. 

“Oh?” Clay asks, and George can see him staring at him almost without shame from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, thought I’d finally unpack.”

Clay’s eyes drop away quickly as George brings his attention to him, and he’s laughing but it sounds almost embarrassed. “Why do you need Nick to leave to do that?”

“I don’t know,” George admits with a laugh, mouth crinkling at the corners as he grins, “I guess I just wanted to give him the attention he deserved.”

“And I don’t deserve the same attention?”

“Mmm.. no.”

“Wow.” Clay shakes his head in disbelief but he’s laughing, pushing himself off the couch.

Once again, George is reminded just how tall he is. While he and Nick are on par with one another, Clay is like a skyscraper in comparison. The top of George’s head just reaches Clay’s chin, and it almost annoys him how far he has to tilt his head back to look into his eyes.

Not that he’s thought about doing that, no.

“You can help me unpack if you want,” George offers, already heading to his room.

“No thanks, maybe _I_ don’t want your attention now.”

“Ok.”

But Clay is following him, just like George knew he would.

His room is already a war zone, two large suitcases sitting open on the floor with clothes everywhere, having realized just before going to sleep that his sleepwear was buried. 

Boxes, too, line the white walls with computer parts poking out from where he opened them to check that everything he’d shipped from England had arrived safe and sound. 

Six whole months in Florida.

It doesn’t feel like home yet, and he’s worried that by the time his six months are up he’ll only just feel settled in. He doesn’t want to think about that yet, doesn’t want to worry about leaving and what that means.

“I didn’t know we had a hurricane last night!” Clay stands in the doorway, allowing himself a long and breathy laugh as he surveys the mess.

“Oh? Yeah, didn’t you hear Hurricane George?” He says mockingly as he begins pulling shirts up off the floor. “Maybe you shouldn’t have slept so long.” 

“Actually, I didn’t sleep at all.”

He unknowingly confirms what George assumed, and he wonders if the cause is the same for both of them.

“Why’s that?” He keeps his tone light but he knows he’s trying to bait him, trying to understand where Clay stands.

“Just excited you’re here, I guess.”

He’s not sure what to do with that, it’s not suggestive of anything because it’s exactly what a long-distance friend turned roommate would say.

Deflated, George grabs some hangers from the closet and sets them down on the bed. “If you’re going to just stand there, you might as well help me.” He throws a couple shirts to Clay who swiftly catches them and makes his way over next to George.

“What if I don’t want to?” The question is pointless considering he’s already pulling shirts onto hangers, but it’s just like Clay to protest for the sake of his own pride.

“Then leave.”

“What if I don’t want to?” There’s a smug smile tugging on the corner of Clay’s mouth as he repeats his own question.

George can only let out an exasperated groan which somehow manages to morph into a fit of laughter, “Then… I don’t know.” He’s trying to hold back his laughter, shaking his head while focusing on what should be the simple task of hanging his clothes up and yet feels so difficult in that moment. “Make yourself useful somehow.”

“Oh, I can think of plenty of different ways to make myself useful to you.” And the line isn’t flirty in the slightest, but it’s the way he says it, voice lowered and almost suggestive that says something very different.

 _This_ is what George has been waiting for: an invitation, a sign that whatever was happening online is just as plausible now, in person.

“Yeah?” He can feel his cheeks growing redder, and it annoys him how easily flustered Clay manages to make him feel. He purposely turns away from Clay, studying the shirts now lined up in the closet. “Like what?” 

“Anything. Whatever you need. Except unpacking.”

“Anything is awfully risky.” He’s trying to figure out a way to turn this back on Clay, wants to make him feel flustered, to see his cheeks redden. He knows he can do it, knows the other man takes it worse than him.

Clay doesn’t say anything, and so George turns back, their eyes locking on one another instantly.

And it’s there, that fluttering sensation in his stomach that seems to be winding its way along his spine, clouding his mind.

There’s a shadow that passes over Clay’s face and that’s it, _there it is_. Maybe George imagines it but Clay’s cheeks are getting rosier, his muscles tense beneath his white t-shirt, his breathing hitches.

Their conversation hasn’t even reached the same level of flirtation that their online conversations usually do, but instead it’s been replaced by something unspoken.

Just like their first meeting yesterday, George takes two steps towards him, and Clay automatically closes the gap. They’re in each other’s spaces, and George doesn’t think he’s ever thought Clay could ever come across so unconfident, so hesitant.

 _He wants this just as much as I do,_ runs through his mind like a never-ending marquee.

But he needs confirmation, or he’s afraid neither will pluck up the courage to do something more.

“Clay,” He says his name and he realizes he’s been avoiding saying that, _Clay_ , when he’s been Dream for so long. 

It sounds foreign on his tongue and yet saying it comes easily to him, as if he was waiting to say it at just the right moment. To allow himself to fully realize that yes, this is Clay who’s standing in front of him now. Not Dream who hides on the internet behind an image of a blobbed smiley face. Not Dream who exudes more confidence than is humanely possible. Not Dream who intimidates everyone with his logic.

This is Clay. Clay, whose loyalty to his friends is stronger than anything George has ever known. Clay, who has so many creative ambitions and ideas that George is sure one day it’ll cause him to collapse. Clay, who knows that George will understand exactly what he’s trying to say before he’s said it and vice versa.

“Clay,” he repeats, softly. “Anything?”

“Anything, George.” The way his name rolls off of Clay’s tongue is unsettling — 

And all restraint that George has built up shatters.

He tilts his head as one hand finds the back of Clay’s neck, their lips meeting halfway and suddenly George doesn’t know how to breathe.

The world doesn’t need oxygen.

Poets don’t need words.

All George needs in this moment is the way Clay’s lips move on his as if they’re perfectly formed for one another.

All George wants for the rest of his life is the feeling of Clay’s hands on his neck, on his back, traveling up his spine and causing him to elicit a sound from the back of his throat that is completely indecent for simply kissing.

He would trade the world for the way Clay’s body feels so perfectly solid against him, and his free hand slips around to the other man’s back to grab a fistful of his t-shirt just in case his legs buckle beneath him. There’s a pressure pounding in his head that feels so immense, unforgiving, and beautiful.

He knows Clay feels the same way by the way he seems so _desperate_ — hands traveling everywhere, creating a map of his chest, his backside, his cheeks, his neck.

There’s a pause when they both come up for air, but George is pushing him toward the bed because he needs a surface before he keels over from the adrenaline, pulling Clay beneath him as he sprawls half his body on top of him.

Their mouths find each other again quickly, and while the fire isn’t raging like it was before, it’s a candlelight that somehow feels more intimate.

Clay pulls away a few seconds later, much to George’s distress who lets out a whine of protest, “What?” He pacifies himself somewhat by letting his lips move along Clay’s jawline, needing to do something to keep himself from losing his mind.

“Nothing, I just can’t believe this is real.” When George doesn’t respond, he continues, “Do you know how many months I spent agonizing over whether or not the DNF memes, the suggestive texts, were more than just you joking around?”

With a huff, George finally pulls away, slipping off of Clay and lying on his side to face him. “I could say the same exact thing.”

“Oh please, I don’t think I was ever subtle about it.”

“You laughed every time there was even a slight suggestion of DNF, why would I ever think you were being serious?”

Clay seems to contemplate this for a moment, “I guess because they really were funny at the time, but it was also just nerves. I’ve never felt like this about anything in my life. I didn’t know what to do or how to respond to it.”

George hums and nods his head, allowing himself to fall on his back and stare up at the ceiling. It strikes him then just how long they’ve both been hiding their feelings, allowing themselves to laugh at something they both desired so strongly but could never act on.

They’re both silent for a minute, both trying to comprehend the weight of what they’ve just discovered and allowed themselves to indulge in.

“I don’t know what’s next,” George finally says, voice quiet and uncertain. “I don’t know if we’re both losing our minds, but I’ve never felt like I wanted something so much in my life and that scares me.”

He’s had serious and brutally honest conversations with Clay before, but never like this. It feels strange, to be talking this way with him, no jokes or light-hearted flirting, and in a place that he’s still not sure feels like home yet. It feels almost out-of-body, and perhaps would be more so if it weren’t for the warmth radiating from the man next to him, reminding him that this is actually happening.

“Well, let’s just take it one day at a time then.” Clay pushes up from where he’s laying and hovers over him, hand going up to his cheek, thumb drawing endless circles. “Let’s just talk about what’s happening in the next second, we can worry about the next day or next month later.”

The feeling of home hits him then, his fingers pressing into the back of Clay’s next to bring their lips back together, craving everything he was missing out on for too many months. 

Florida isn’t his home, these four walls aren’t his home.

It’s Clay.

It’s the way he feels so at ease when they’re wrapped up in one another. The way they both know just what the other needs to hear. The way the rest of the world ceases to exist when they’re near one another.

It’s always been him, even when they were an ocean apart.


	2. Dream POV (1st Person)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same story, just first-person Dream POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: just a quick one-shot George POV!  
> Also me: .... but what if I also did a first-person Dream POV of the same exact storyline
> 
> Just like the first, didn't proofread this so let me know if there are any edits to be made.

_And it feels like a spell you're under  
But yeah you got it all under control_

* * *

He has always been what’s grounded me, kept me from losing my mind — from allowing my ego to get the better of me.

I should’ve seen this coming from a thousand miles away, seen the warnings that what we were about to become wouldn’t just drown me, but cause me to suffer for months in silence.

Our first embrace is short, but it exudes a warmth I’ve never experienced before, spawning a thousand sickly cheesy song lyrics before we’ve even begun to part. It’s superficial to call the feeling a comfort when it’s so much more than that, a dozen adjectives the English language has yet to design. His shape is somehow familiar when I’ve never even held him before.

“I can’t believe you finally made it!”

Those are my first words to George in person. Not a text message on a screen, not a muffled voice transmitting across thousands of miles.

It hits me then, in the half second of silence before he answers, after we’ve sized one another up, after I’ve taken him in from head-to-toe — to make sure this is real… it really, truly, hits me that he’s here.

I didn’t prepare myself enough for this, didn’t dare allow myself to imagine this scenario actually happening. Self-preservation kicked in, screaming at me with bared teeth that this was all a trap. He would miss his flight or worse, tell me this was all some sick and twisted joke.

But that was idiotic, that’s never been George.

We know how to push each other’s buttons, know we can pull pranks on the other and get away without so much as a scratch, but to fake a six-month visa? To fake a flight? To fake sending boxes of computer parts ahead of his arrival? That would be unheard of.

I don’t know why I worried. I don’t know what self-deprecating part of me really thought George would pull a stunt like that. Why I would even allow myself to question his trust now after so many years of building it up.

Maybe it was the consequences I knew I’d suffer from imagining. As much as I’d tried to stop myself, they’d pass through my mind when my defenses were down. The _What Ifs_ , _Maybes_ , and _Whens_.

What if our attachments to one another manifest differently in person?

Maybe he’ll be disappointed.

When he gets here, what should I say?

But worst of all, what if these feelings I’ve been swallowing down for so long now aren’t reciprocated?

“What? Did you think I was just memeing you this entire time?”

He knows me, I’ve always known how well he can read me. I might as well have written all my thoughts and feelings on my forehead. With everyone else, I’ve kept my heart like the caged bird it should be — but with him it’s not just sitting on my sleeve, it’s flying miles high at every word he directs to me and me alone.

I’m surprised he hasn’t seen it yet.

“I don’t know, you coulda been.” My smile is strained, but my gaze is unwavering. I’m still waiting for him to tell me the visa was the actual joke here, that he’ll be leaving in a week.

“Wow, you must think so little of me.”

He says it sarcastically but it hurts me nonetheless because there’s some truth to it. Not that I think little of him by any measure, but the incredulity that I would question him at all.

“No, of course not,” I shoot back quickly, putting my own doubts to bed in the process and allowing myself a quiet laugh at my own expense. “Just didn’t want my heart to be broken.”

But then he says — “I’d never break your heart.” And it’s too serious, hidden underneath layers of our usual light-hearted banter but not well enough for me to let it pass by.

Then there’s Nick, reminding us as he always does that the world doesn’t revolve around only the two of us. “Want to meet Patches, Gogy?”

And I laugh, because my entire world is suddenly off-kilter and Nick’s first worry is that George still hasn’t met my cat.

* * *

Nick has always been the support system I’ve needed. George might be the one I can push the boundaries of our friendship with, the one I spend an hour too long on a call with, but Nick is the one who’s been there for me when I didn’t even know I needed to be put in my place.

He picked up on what was going on before either George or I did, and came in like the Superman he is during streams to remind us that yes, we’re live, that thousands of faceless names are watching us and dissecting everything we’re doing.

He’s also the one who’s told me that I’ve come across as overbearing at times, showing up on calls only if George is there, inserting myself into conversations only because George’s name was brought up or even only possibly related to the topic at hand.

He’s always been my brother, checking in to see if _maybe we need to talk about it_ , or _what was that with you and George today, huh?_ Without him, I’d probably be in shambles, too focused on George while forgetting the rest of the world exists.

But it’s overwhelming, and it’s hard not to fall into that trap the minute I see his name pop up on my screen. It’s impossible not to want to be around the one person I know I can talk to for hours on end and never get tired of. He puts me at ease when everything else feels like it’s trying to put me in my grave.

* * *

I’m sleep-deprived, having stayed up all night very aware of the person only a few feet away. I tried counting my breaths, even tried to count sheep, but none of it worked. At one point I even turned on my computer and brought up the Minecraft loading page only to stare at it for twenty minutes while my mind kept drifting.

George looks just as tired as I do the next day, and, selfishly, that makes me feel a little bit better. Maybe he had the same problem that I did… or maybe it was just the travel.

Nick does his best to keep a conversation going, giddy at George’s arrival as much as I seem… although, perhaps not in the same way.

“What do you think, George?” He asks, something about going to an arcade tomorrow.

“Uh,” I catch George looking away from me, and I feel a little smug at that. He had no reason to be staring, I haven’t spoken a word in ten minutes. “Sure.”

“You don’t even know what I was asking you about, do you?” I have to muffle a laugh at Nick’s call out, knowing this is headed south.

As expected, George offers a classically sassy response, “Clearly it wasn’t important or exciting enough for me to be paying attention to.”

“Ouch,” I say automatically. At least our dynamic in person seems to be the same.

“Whatever. I’m just glad George is as annoying offline as he is online.” Nick and I seem to be in agreement on that front, I just wouldn’t say he’s annoying. “Anyway,” he continues, getting up from the armchair where he’s been happily slumbering these past few hours. “I have plans. You two just… behave while I’m gone.”

I raise my hands in front of me, a surrender — what sort of accusation is that? I have no reason to misbehave.

Yet.

“Ok, father.” I add, as he makes his way out of the house.

To my delight, it garners a George from giggle, a sound I’ll be very happy to listen to forever.

“And here I thought he’d never leave.”

George’s words surprise me, mostly because I have no idea what he means by it and I’m running ten different possibilities through my mind before I finally say, “Oh?” And remind myself not to stare as he stretches his arms, distracted by the way his shirt is riding up and exposing a bit of skin. 

“Yeah, thought I’d finally unpack.” Yeah, that was not one of the possibilities going through my mind.

“Why do you need Nick to leave to do that?”

“I don’t know,” He laughs, and I laugh because it’s hard not to laugh when he laughs and it’s a vicious cycle. “I guess I just wanted to give him the attention he deserved.”

It takes everything in me not to pout because pouting is his thing, definitely not mine. I could never be that desperate. Usually. “And I don’t deserve the same attention?” I ask, feeling very confident in my composure.

“Mmm… no.”

“Wow.” I’m laughing again because it’s the way he accents the _no_ , the little hint of sass he adds that always gets me no matter the situation.

Regardless, I follow him to his bedroom. I have nothing better to do right then, and getting to follow him around aimlessly in person and not on Minecraft is a whole different experience that I’m very much cherishing.

His bedroom, however, is a mess. “I didn’t know we had a hurricane last night!” Is all I can come up with, trying to find the floor beneath open boxes, suitcases, and clothes everywhere. I don’t really care, but I need something to bug him with.

“Oh? Yeah, didn’t you hear Hurricane George? Maybe you shouldn’t have slept so long.”

“Actually, I didn’t sleep at all.” My response is almost automatic, as if I was waiting to be given a chance to say it.

“Why’s that?”

The question he poses is tame, but I could think of a dozen not-so-tame responses to test the waters.

But I don’t think he wants to cross that line, and I don’t want to ruin our friendship when it’s just begun a new journey.

Instead, I opt for something safe, “Just excited you’re here, I guess.”

I watch him almost violently throw clothes onto hangers, looking a little forlorn, and I can only assume it’s because his bedroom is such a mess.

“If you’re going to just stand there,” He says, shooting me a pointed glance, “You might as well help me.”

I manage to catch a couple shirts he throws at me, making my way over to where he’s set up shop at the end of his bed and begin pulling the shirts onto free hangers. 

“What if I don’t want to?” I ask, just to annoy him because this conversation is too tame.

“Then leave.” He replies simply, and I’m the one who’s annoyed now because he’s not taking the bait.

So, I ask again, pulling out a smug smile just to set him off a bit more, “What if I don’t want to?”

I don’t miss the groan he lets out at that and count it as a point for me. 1 point Clay, 0 points George.

“Then… I don’t know.” I hear him say, between my own attempts to silence my laughter. “Make yourself useful somehow.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Oh,” I begin, keeping my tone low, almost suggestive, “I can think of plenty of different ways to make myself useful to you.”

“Yeah? Like what?” George has turned away, but I can hear it in his voice, the way it wavers ever so slightly — he’s always been so good at hiding any nerves, I envy him.

“Anything.” I’m trying to send him a message without saying it aloud, hoping he understands, willing him to reciprocate. I won’t be the one to ruin our friendship if he doesn’t feel the same sensation that I do in the pit of my stomach. “Whatever you need. Except unpacking.”

“Anything is awfully risky.” His response is too quick, too sharp, as if he’d been waiting to say it. 

That’s enough. It’s enough for my heart rate to pick up, for my body to feel like it isn’t mine anymore, for my cheeks to feel hot and my mind to jumble with all the different possible ways this could go wrong.

He’s staring at me now and I know he can see it all happening, know he knows.

Then he’s taking steps toward me and I’ve lost control of myself, closing the space between us because there’s too much of it. Like I’ve never wanted to be near someone so much. Nights spent on Discord calls just to see his name close to mine are nothing compared to the way I can hear him breathing in front of me now, can practically feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Clay,” he says my name like it’s breakable, and it’s shattering me.

Nothing is happening because I don’t know what to do, keep waiting for the catch. My automatic response is to throw up my defenses, insert a dumb joke, act like we’re playing chicken — but I’m powerless here.

“Clay,” He says it again and I’ve never heard my name, my _real_ name spoken so softly, so intimately. “Anything?”

“Anything, George,” I say his like it’s a lullaby because I want him to _understand_ —

He does, his lips finding mine as if we’ve done this before in another life, one hand on the back of my neck and it’s putting me into overdrive.

I feel _hungry_ , to feel him — to take him in however and wherever possible. My hands are running up and down his chest, his back, up to his face and repeating it a hundred different ways because what if he realizes he doesn’t want this? I need to map out every part of him before he leaves.

I can feel his fist bunching in my shirt on my back, and at least I’m not alone in my desperation — not the only one who feels this horrible loss of self-control. Whatever we’ve ignited is a wildfire, and I hope nothing ever douses it.

It’s the way I know I’ve wanted this for so many months. And it’s finally happening.

We both pull away at the same time, allowing ourselves a moment of respite to catch our breath. He’s moving away and for a second my nightmare scenario is coming true, he’s going to put an end to this — but then he’s just pulling me with him, pushing me on my back on the bed — _his_ bed in his new home. In my home. And our mouths lock once again.

It’s our home.

That line alone is enough to send shivers down my spine and I have to pull away again after a minute because my heart is like a runaway train.

“What?” He asks, a whine in his voice. I know he’s annoyed, and I’m trying not to focus on the way he’s leaving a trail of very unrefined kisses along my jawline. He’s so good at getting what he wants, he knows he could just ask me in _that_ voice to keep going but thankfully, he seems to understand that I need a second.

“Nothing, I just can’t believe this is real.” It’s not just that he’s here, but that he’s _here_ , on top of me, pulling me into him and allowing me to cross a line. He’s been so good at keeping himself one step removed, keeping his own composure, but now we’re on the same level — both lost in each other with no control. “Do you know how many months I spent agonizing over whether or not the DNF memes, the suggestive texts, were more than just you joking around?”

He slides off of me and props himself on his side, “I could say the same exact thing.”

I have to stop myself from ruining the moment and laughing in his face. The poker-faced king himself, trying to push this on me. I don’t think so. “Oh please, I don’t think I was ever subtle about it.”

“You laughed every time there was even a slight suggestion of DNF, why would I ever think you were being serious?”

And I guess I did laugh, but it was that whole self-preservation issue, worried I’d come across too strong and ruin something. “I guess because they really were funny at the time, but it was just nerves.” I admit, taking a deep breath. “I’ve never felt like this about anything in my life. I didn’t know what to do or how to respond to it.”

Being honest with George has always been so easy, but this is an honesty unlike anything either of us have had to experience before. And yet, it still comes easy, as if keeping it to myself would have broken me.

I turn my head to the side, watch him as he falls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, waiting patiently for him to let me into his mind. That’s always how it’s been, letting him take his time.

“I don’t know what’s next,” His voice cuts through the silence finally. “I don’t know if we’re both losing our minds, but I’ve never felt like I wanted something so much in my life and that scares me.”

It feels so terrible to understand exactly what he means. I hate it for him and for me. I can’t protect him from what’s to come as much as I want to, and he can’t qualm my own fears about this with his soothing words, but I’ve never felt so good about one moment and one choice ever before.

We stopped being friends a long time ago. We made the choice to make this into something more not during heated seconds in a humid Florida bedroom, but over time. 

I don’t know why I worried so much when all the signs were there. We just didn’t have the opportunity. Now that opportunity has coming knocking, building a home in the space between our two hearts.

“Well, let’s just take it one day at a time then,” I say, voice warm and comforting, trying to wrap him in the security I want to be able to offer him. I go as far as pulling myself on top of him, the desire to be as close as possible tearing me in two all of a sudden. My hand rests on his cheek, thumb drawing circles. “Let’s just talk about what’s happening in the next second, we can worry about the next day or next month later.”

His fingers are on the back of my neck, pulling our lips back together. My hand is slipping from his cheek to his side, allowing my own fingers to curl around his hip where his shirt has risen just slightly, right where I saw it before when he was stretching.

I’ve never experienced bliss as strong as this.


End file.
